Tokyo never slept.
But Yasachiru Mahi often wished it would.
At thirty-seven, he was one of the countless shadows that moved between the neon and the concrete. A supermarket worker in Tokyo Fruits Market—a store infamous in its district for endless hours, backbreaking shelves, and a paycheck so small it was almost a joke—he had become a fixture among the fluorescent aisles. His hunched back, his tired eyes, the way he carried crates of vegetables without ever looking up—customers barely saw him, but they hated him all the same. Perhaps it was the quietness of his face, the gloom he carried, or perhaps it was simply because the city needed someone to despise.
The truth, however, was darker but of course no one knew that because all they did was hate his louzy aditude from his own depression.
Yasachiru had lived his adult life like a slave dragging a ball and chain. His boss, a sharp-smiled hunter with the voice of a saint, had long ago found the chink in Yasachiru's armor: his past. With every gentle word, every false kindness, he reminded Yasachiru—subtly, cruelly—that he knew. That he knew about the incident. That he knew about the kid who had died. That he knew Yasachiru had been the perfect scapegoat: timid, awkward, quiet. There was a time when he sank into deep depression, and his boss, sensing the weight of a painful past, decided to exploit it. Instead of offering help, the boss used that despair like a tool—twisting the memories and emotions into chains. By weaponizing his sadness, the boss pushed him harder and harder, overworking him until he became the company's most productive asset. His suffering became the fuel for his boss's greed, paving the way to the money and victory the boss craved. All from learning his past from using that one moment he knew he could use him at...
The city remembered too. Tokyo has no mercy for the weak. In every new school he transferred to after that tragedy, whispers spread before he even spoke his name. "That's him. The kid who killed someone." Even after prison spat him out, scarred and hollow, the echo of that reputation followed him. Workplaces. Neighbors. Even strangers. His face was carved into memory as a laughingstock, a monster, a freak.
And still, he endured. Perhaps because he thought he deserved it. Even though he knew he had been framed, he also knew there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was endure. That was just the kind of person he was back then—timid, hesitant, always doubting himself no matter the situation. His personality made him second-guess every choice, convincing him that some things were simply beyond his reach. In the end, he was only human—too shy to stand up, too fragile to push back. He realized this truth far too late, after he had already lived through the horror of being framed and left with nothing but regret.
But when his boss called him into the back room one rain-soaked evening and told him—politely, coldly—that he was fired, something inside him cracked. The excuse was simple: his parents wanted to move to the countryside, and Yasachiru, desperate to appease them despite their cruelty, had mentioned it. His boss only smiled, nodded, and told him not to bother coming tomorrow. ""A new worker's already here, and he's picking things up faster than you ever will. You moving so far away? That's a problem for the business. And I can see it on your face—you've got that junk look, like some loser begging for scraps. You think I don't notice you whispering to yourself, working up the nerve to tell me? Please. I could tell yesterday just by your eyes. Honestly, it's pathetic. You've been nothing but a bother. So here's the truth—goodbye, fat loser. Don't come back."," he said lightly, as though Yasachiru were disposable trash.
The words followed him out into the night.
His parents didn't care, either. They hadn't cared about anything except their own drinks for years. When he told them, hoping for a shred of sympathy, their response was bitter laughter. "You'll come with us. You don't get a choice."
He walked alone through the streets of Shinjuku, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, his body heavy with fatigue that felt older than time. Neon lights glared on puddles, mocking him with their brightness. He passed alleys where other people had ended their lives, bridges with flowers tied to the rails, and he thought: Yes. That is the only way left.
So when he saw the rope, discarded near a construction site, he didn't hesitate. He carried it home, tucked under his jacket like a secret.
That night, he locked his bedroom door. His parents didn't notice as usual. They never did. The rope looped over the ceiling beam with surprising ease. His hands didn't tremble. They were calm—too calm, like a being carrying out the final step of a task already decided years ago.
There was no note. No words left to give. He knew no one would care, not his parents, not his coworkers, not the city that had crushed him. His existence had been a mistake from the beginning.
He climbed the chair. The rope scratched against his neck as he tightened it. For a moment, the world narrowed to silence. Then, as his feet kicked the air, as blackness rushed in, Yasachiru Mahi thought, Finally. It's over.
But it wasn't.
Light.
He opened his eyes. A ceiling stared back at him—smooth, white, and clean. Not the stained plaster of his parents' apartment, but something else, something achingly familiar. His stomach heaved. His lungs burned as though dragging him back from death itself.
He sat up. The room was... wrong. Not wrong in the sense of strange, but wrong because it was impossible.
The posters on the wall—faded anime prints from the 90s. The neatly stacked manga beside the bed. The old school uniform, folded on the desk chair.
"No..." Yasachiru whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands shook as he grabbed the uniform, pressing it to his himself. It was too small, too clean. And when he stumbled toward the mirror, his breath caught.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't the face of a broken, middle-aged adult. It was a kids. His own young face—seventeen, bright skin, wide eyes filled not with exhaustion but with fear and confusion.
He staggered back, his heartbeat roaring.
"This... can't be..."
The door slid open suddenly, and a voice called: "Yasachiru! You'll be late for school!"
His mother's voice. But not the drunken rasp of the mother who sneered at him in adulthood. This voice was still sharp, but steady. A mother who still had meals ready, still cared about appearances, still lived in the days before everything collapsed because of the framing incident which made him look like murderer.
His knees gave out. He pressed his hands to the tatami floor, trembling.
Why am I here?
His memories hadn't vanished. They were heavy, choking. The supermarket. The cruel laughter of his classmates. The prison cell. The rope. His death. All of it burned inside him, refusing to fade.
But the sun outside his window was real. The voices of the morning were real. The warmth of the air, the smell of rice cooking from the kitchen—real.
And as he pulled the curtains wide, the light struck his eyes, so bright it hurt.
Tears blurred his vision.
This was the morning of the month before the incident. The day before everything began to unravel. The day before his life was stolen.
He pressed his forehead to the glass, his lips trembling.
"I... I'm back."
For the first time in years, Yasachiru felt something beyond despair. Something fragile. Something dangerous.
Hope.
But even as it sparked, the weight of his memories whispered: You can't escape. You'll always be the kid who was framed. You'll always be hated. You'll always be broken by fate.
Yet the rope had failed. Death had failed. And if fate had thrown him back to this moment, perhaps—just perhaps—he could change what came next.
Even if his depression clawed at him. Even if the darkness never truly left.
He clenched his fists, staring out at the sunlit streets of Tokyo, the world still innocent of the tragedy about to come.
"No matter what it takes... I will not let it happen again."
Scene 2: Morning by fall back...
The world of yesterday embraced him again.
School corridors echoed with familiar laughter, the kind he once thought he'd lost forever. Chalk screeched faintly across blackboards, sneakers slapped against polished gym floors, and sunlight fell through wide windows in slanted golden beams. Yasakchiru walked through it all like a ghost draped in skin—alive, yes, but carrying the corpse of his future self deep inside.
He smiled. Or at least, he tried to. His lips curved upward, but the weight behind them was hollow. Everyone saw a kid trying to live, but inside was the person who had already died once.
It was Eruto Kaiju who noticed first. Eruto—his best friend, his anchor back then. Loyal to a fault, fierce on the soccer field, the kind of kid everyone expected to stand tall forever. After the incident, Eruto had looked at Yasakchiru with eyes colder than any prison cell. That memory burned in Yasakchiru's stomach more than the rope ever had.
And now Eruto stood before him in gym class, squinting at the false smile.
"Mahitaro. Stop lying."
The whistle blew, echoing across the basketball court, but neither moved. The other kids ran past, shouting, laughing, but Eruto's voice cut sharper than any noise.
"You're not alright. Don't tell me you are."
For a moment, Yasakchiru's heart threatened to collapse. The truth clawed at his throat—the rope, the prison, the decades of despair, the time-slip miracle that chained him to this cursed replay. He wanted to scream it all, to beg Eruto not to leave him again. But no. He couldn't. Time travel wasn't something he could explain without sounding insane.
So he lied. But he lied with care, shaping the words as if molding clay.
"I've just... been dealing with something. Recently. Feels heavy, but I can't explain it."
Eruto's eyes softened, but suspicion lingered like a blade's edge.
"You don't need to explain it. Just don't carry it alone."
Those words cut him deeper than hate ever had. Yasakchiru nodded, forcing another smile, his lungs burning with the effort to keep the lie alive. For one fleeting day, he let himself bask in the illusion that maybe—just maybe—things could stay different.
—
The month passed like a fragile dream. Each sunrise felt stolen, each sunset a countdown. Yasakchiru replayed memories in his mind like broken film reels, trying to spot the traps, the threads that led to his downfall. He remembered the whispers, the accusations, the face of the kid they claimed he killed. And above it all, the shadow of the one who framed him.
Itaru Daruno.
The name hissed in his memory like poison.
So he followed. He observed. He waited for the cracks in reality where his knowledge could be used to unravel the scheme. He thought he was ready. He thought this time would be different.
But the day arrived. The day everything collapsed.
And it did not change.
The events unfolded with cruel precision, as if fate itself mocked him. His knowledge twisted into lies. The evidence he thought he held disintegrated in his hands. And then—out of fury, out of despair—he confronted Itaru Daruno.
"You won't ruin me again!" Yasakchiru's scream split the air, his fists trembling as years of torment erupted in a single act of defiance. He struck, teeth clenched, eyes wild. For once he wasn't timid. For once he wasn't silent.
But Itaru stumbled back, hands raised, terror splashed across his face.
"It's not me! You've got the wrong person! Somebody told me to do this—they promised they'd pay me! But now that I think about it... this is gonna get me arrested! And listen—my name is the real one, believe that! He was the one using an alias, copying my name to cover up his crimes! I was gonna betray him, I swear, but his face was so horrifying I couldn't even move. I'm done with this, I'm outta here! I'm switching schools to be safe—seriously, this is totally insane!"
Confusion shattered Yasakchiru's rage. He froze, staring at the face before him. This wasn't the face he remembered. The features were wrong, twisted. Had he been chasing the wrong shadow all this time?
And then—behind him. Footsteps. A whisper. A smirk. The real one. The true framer stepped from behind the stairwell, smothered in false innocence, and in that instant, history snapped back into place.
The death. The screams. The accusations.
The police.
The chains.
Only this time, Yasakchiru didn't collapse in shock. This time, he ran. Through alleys, across streets slick with rain, his lungs tearing apart inside his stomach. He reached his parents' house, gasping, clutching the walls for balance. But instead of safety, there was betrayal. His parents stood at the door, holding him in place until the police swarmed.
"Take him. He's not our son."
The words poisoned his veins. His family shattered all over again.
That night, he sat alone in the dark of his room, the same rope coiled on the floor. His hands moved automatically, tying the knot, dragging the computer chair. His heart didn't race. It didn't need to. He had done this before. This time, he would do it clean.
The chair tipped. The rope bit. Silence swallowed him.
And then—
—
He woke up again.
The same sunlight.
The same curtains.
The same month, before the incident.
It hadn't changed. Not one thing.
Yasakchiru stumbled from the bed, his ribs heaving, and vomited onto the tatami mats. Mucus and streaks of blood spilled from his mouth, bile tearing up his throat from where he had bitten his lips raw. His body convulsed, his hands clawing at the floor.
"No... no, no, no, no, no—"
His face twisted, shock flooding every line of his expression. He had thought despair couldn't deepen, but this was worse than death. Worse than prison. Worse than the rope.
He collapsed onto the floor, drenched in sweat, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. His tears spilled, pooling beside the vomit. His mouth trembled as if he wanted to scream but couldn't find the air.
Fate had locked him in a cycle.
Life, despair, death.
Reset. Repeat.
And as the chapter closed, Yasakchiru's body shook with sobs that were half-human, half-animal, tearing themselves from his throat in raw anguish. The most emotional, disturbing silence followed—a silence that screamed louder than words.
TO BE CONTINUED...